


Persistence

by stephanericher



Series: SASO 17 [13]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 21:40:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11299383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: we had to keep our relationship hidden when we were together now you moved away and idk if this will ever work out in this life but I love you and I ain't giving up





	Persistence

**Author's Note:**

> for saso br2, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12251881#cmt12251881)

Tatsuya's gone and done every damn last thing he’d said he would, everything he’d said with false bravado perched on the edge of a bare dorm mattress, Wei still trying to shove three years’ worth of his life into his shitty set of suitcases. He’d said he was going to go home, go back to school, make it in the NCAA, make it in the NBA, the types of things Wei’s pretty sure Tatsuya never used to let himself dream about, let alone guarantee. But there’s a different kind of heat in his gaze, the slow and steady flame of a burner on a gas stove rather than a raging forest fire about to eat itself, and focusing on that distracts from how divergent those plans are from Wei’s, how many kilometers across the Pacific Ocean is (and then some).  
  
Wei’s already got his future laid out in the CBA. He wouldn’t expect Tatsuya to join him under the best of circumstances (because for Tatsuya there would be no best-case there; Tatsuya’s all or nothing, best league in the world or no pro career at all, even though the gradient is long and slow between the extremes). But still, there’s a finality about it, absent even from their sketched-out plans already revealed to each other, going back home alone, as if there’s no room for the two of them as a unit.  
  
There won’t be at first, probably; the pros are no small commitment. But after an adjustment, they’ll figure it out; they’ll have holes and off-days and time between practices when they can’t fall asleep, and time difference or no they can call or text. It’s a vain hope, Wei knows, even more vain if he says nothing, but if this is it he doesn’t want to go out on a quarrel he could have avoided it. These days, free from studying and work and practice, should be drenched in rose-gold, Tatsuya’s laugh and his radiant smile, his hand small and sure in Wei’s, Tatsuya sleeping on top of Wei because it’s still so damn cold here at night even as the days grow longer. It’s sappy as shit, but Wei’s pretty sure coming here, meeting Tatsuya, is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.   
  
But now there’s a fucking line for that, because Tatsuya’s the best thing to happen to the Knicks in years, a mid-first-round draft pick after his senior season, stock steadily rising as he’d torn up the NCAA tournament year after year. The Knicks are mediocre; sometimes they’re slightly worse and those are always the years they’ve traded away their top picks for another dubious veteran or risky contract that never seems to pan out. Wei knows all these because, miserable and stupid as he is, he’s reading all of the rumors about his ex-boyfriend, even farther away (land, ocean, an entire continent between them now), on every fansite he can comprehend, Chinese and English and too-rusty Japanese that Tatsuya would tease him for (if he were here, if they could be anything).  
  
Tatsuya’s future is sealed with gold wax, and pining is no use. It’s ridiculous to keep moping, years later (even if he hasn’t had anyone else), and if he can't get over Tatsuya or hold onto some dumb hope of a reunion in Asia (when? The NBA lockout that probably won’t happen?) he’s just got to go to Tatsuya. Easier said than done, but easier done than pining forever or asking Tatsuya out over Skype when they’re thirteen time zones away from each other and the only times they talk it’s skimming the surfaces of their lives. It’s almost impossible to get within arm’s length of Tatsuya in the same room, and over the internet it’s a losing battle, and besides. Wei doesn’t want to do this from across the world.   
  
It’s not as easy as writing a letter to declare his intents for the NBA draft, or letting his automatic eligibility take over; the scouts have to see him play. All of the teams send representatives, but it’s hard to tell where they’re looking and what they’re looking for in a player, how hard they’re looking (because they scout the American colleges thoroughly, high schools, eve, to keep tabs on the younger guys). Wei knows there’s not much glamorous about a big defensive wing, nothing that’s going to catch a scout's eye. He doesn’t have a signature move; he leads his team in minutes but his scoring is selective (he’s more likely to pass the rebound out than to dunk it or dribble across and drive) and he’s not busting out the blocks or rebounds or numbers. He’s good; his coaches wouldn’t tell him he’s doing all the right things; he wouldn’t get selected for international tournaments; if he wasn’t (but he’s not grabbing the glory for China, either; there’s no spotlight on Wei like there’s always been on Tatsuya).  
  
He hears Lakers, Magic, Suns; he hears the coach yell at all of them not to hog the ball for some international scout looking at the players on the other team. Wei doesn’t, not really, but he takes a few shots he usually doesn’t, and they fall, sinking through the net well. The other team’s built smaller; he can shoot over most of them (a late growth spurt that had left him scraping seven feet, so it’s not like that’s unrealistic against some NBA teams, especially if they move him to guard). So he does, relaxing into the flow of the game, dishing the ball out and looking to put on the pressure, not asking for more but taking more of what he gets.  
  
“You’re having yourself a night, Liu,” says one of his coaches says, but not in a bad way, almost with approval.  
  
It’s not until Wei scans over the boxscore from the team scorekeeper that he realizes he’s scored thirty, and he’s not expecting it but he’s not surprised when one of the scouts is waiting for him.  
  
“Liu,” he says. “Great game. You’re eligible for the draft this year, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” says Wei (he’d just barely missed hitting twenty-two by a few weeks last year, one of the pros—or maybe cons—of being born in July).   
  
“You don’t usually show up that much on the scoresheet, but I like your instinct,” he says. “I’m Xiao, by the way, Lakers.”  
  
He rummages in his pocket, plucking out a business card and placing it in Wei’s hand.   
  
“I think we’ll run into each other a few more times.”  
  
Los Angeles is pretty damn far from New York, but he’s got to start somewhere. Tatsuya’s hometown isn’t bad in the scheme of things, and if Xiao gets hired by someone else, if Wei gets drafted and traded, if Tatsuya gets traded—maybe it’s blind optimism; it’s just a cursory look from one scout. They see everyone in the league; Wei’s not going to put up these numbers every time they come (instincts or no, that had to have played a role). But it’s a start, and maybe Wei’s got to live hope-to-hope for now.  
  
The scouts keep coming, the Nets (please), Spurs, Clippers, Raptors, Wizards. Liu's got more business cards than bills in his wallet; they’re starting to call him; his agent talks about getting someone she knows over in North America to represent him for the draft and field more calls, get him a workout. Tatsuya texts him a link to an ESPN article naming him an international player to look for, with a “really, Wei?” attached, and Wei sends him a set of skull emojis in response. He pictures Tatsuya laughing, and it makes the extra workouts easier.  
  
He works out for the Raptors, but it’s the Lakers who take him in the fourth round, buoyed by Xiao, Wei supposes (and the diminishing returns from later rounds).   
  
The team puts him up in a hotel for a week, so he can get settled before the summer league and find an apartment, and Wei finds himself flipping through the Yosen school directory that he’d brought with him. Tatsuya hadn’t opted out of giving out his home address; Wei hopes it wasn’t fake and his parents still live there and that Tatsuya still visits them this time every summer, but hope’s brought him this far.   
  
It brings him to knock at the door, and wait until it opens, and on the other side there’s Tatsuya, a little taller and tanner since the last time Wei had seen him in person, maybe even more gorgeous.  
  
“I’m here,” says Wei.  
  
(Maybe he should have bought flowers, chocolate, a gift, more than just himself.)  
  
“You are,” Tatsuya agrees, and Wei’s not sure who hugs who first.  
  
He is sure of the way Tatsuya's arms feel, stronger and tight around his back and so very right, just like they always have.


End file.
